2342 Storybrooke Street
by ash the airbender
Summary: She'd lived next door to him for ages. Mr. Gold. The lawyer, the loner, the much older man with the delicious Scottish brogue who had never been seen without a suit (except in Belle's own mind). He was apartment 415, she apartment 416. But it may as well have been an entire world that separated them for all the hope there was of Belle's fantasies ever coming true. (Rumbelle AU)
1. 416

**2342 Storybrooke Street**

**1: 416**

_A/N: Enjoy this little three-shot. Read and review._

XXX

She'd lived next door to him for ages. Mr. Gold. The lawyer, the loner, the much older man with the delicious Scottish brogue who had never been seen without a suit (except in Belle's own mind). He was apartment 415, she apartment 416. But it may as well have been an entire world that separated them for all the hope there was of Belle's fantasies ever coming true.

It was a Thursday in that first year of living next to him when she'd developed her incurable crush. They'd run into each other in the diner across the street from their building, where Belle's at-the-time-new best friend Ruby worked. Belle had entered the diner for the first time, looked around nervously; when she recognized Mr. Gold, she asked if she might join him. They talked, Belle laughed too loudly at things that weren't funny, and that's when she realized that she was falling, hopelessly, helplessly, head-over-blue-kitten-heels.

In the four years since then, Belle's crush had gradually morphed into an unhealthy obsession. She found absurd excuses to spend time with Mr. Gold whenever she could. She had locked herself out of her apartment on purpose so she could spend time in his apartment more times than she could count, and frequently invented unnamed "friends of friends" who were "seeking legal advice." But in those four long years, Belle had come no closer to moving in on Mr. Gold than she had to growing wings or sprouting gills out of her neck.

In all honesty, Belle had become a bit of a stalker; Ruby never hesitated to tell her so. Belle knew Mr. Gold went across the street for coffee at seven fifteen and was at his desk at work by eight (she'd made friends with his secretary, Kathryn Nolan, who was thankfully understanding and not at all judgmental). Gold took his tea without sugar (Belle took hers with honey). He left the office by eight in the evening – twelve whole hours he spent at work, a dedication that might repel most women but only increased Belle's liking for Gold – and was usually the last to leave the building, except the custodial staff. He arrived home just in time for Belle to "happen" to be coming back from dinner at the same time.

Belle knew all this about Mr. Gold, but she was sure he knew nothing about her. Why would he? She wasn't anyone special, no one important. She was Isabelle French, she worked at the library and hadn't dated a guy since her jerk of an ex-fiancé she met in college. She had dreams of writing a novel but never knew where to start and paid her way through grad school working as a waitress living off tips and, once, a bartender in a strip club.

A man like Mr. Gold wouldn't look twice at a woman like Belle. And this was something she had accepted as fact, until one fateful day in August when her luck finally changed.

It started in a way you wouldn't expect. Or perhaps you would, if you were Belle. She'd just that month had to bail her ex-fiancé, Gus, out of jail and hadn't had enough money to pay her electric bill, which meant no light, no air conditioning, and no hot water.

It had nonetheless come as a bit of a shock when Belle had come home from work only to find the lights wouldn't turn on in her apartment. She'd used her cell phone to call her super, who had gravely informed her that as she'd been already a week late in paying her bills, she wouldn't get power back until she did pay.

That had really been the last straw in a string of terrible events that had befallen Belle that month. Exasperated, she'd taken all her perishables out of the fridge and begged Mary Margaret downstairs to take them off her hands. She'd then set in with a flashlight and a book to wait out the evening until she fell asleep, resolving to go to Gus about the money he owed her so she could pay her bills and get this whole thing over with.

Around eight o'clock, her flashlight began to dim, then flicker, and finally went out.

Honestly, Belle had almost burst into tears.

Unable to take this ridiculousness a moment longer, Belle was about to go downstairs again to ask Mary Margaret for spare batteries when she heard the door unlock and open next door. The unmistakable sound of Mr. Gold's cane hitting the floor resonated throughout the adjacent apartment.

Gritting her teeth and putting aside her pride, Belle shot to her feet and went over and knocked on Mr. Gold's door before she could wise up and change her mind.

"Mr. Gold!" she called pitifully, banging three times on the door. He was at the door in a moment; it opened and there he stood, and Belle had to remind herself to breathe. She cursed herself; how pathetic was this? She couldn't have a meaningless conversation about batteries with this man without fumbling over her words and turning the color of a turnip.

"Yes, Miss French?" He looked surprised to see her, but Mr. Gold wasn't the sort to let much emotion show on his face. His surprise was short-lived. "What can I do for you?" he asked.

"Oh, it's a very long story, but do you have any double-A batteries I could use?" Belle asked, offered a pleading smile, and held up her flashlight.

"Certainly," Gold said, motioning for Belle to follow him inside. She did, but stood just inside the door, because this was panning out far too much like one of her fantasies for her to be comfortable. "What for?" Gold asked curiously as he sifted through drawers in the kitchen. Belle shifted her feet and looked down at her shoes, blushing. It was embarrassing, having an ex in jail and not being able to pay her bills, especially considering that, as a lawyer, Gold definitely made much more than her. He probably never had money troubles.

"I, uh," Belle coughed, "I couldn't pay my electric bill this month, so, no light." She shrugged. "Not so bad during the day, except that it gets pretty hot and stuffy, but it's alright. It's only until I can get the money, and I can just stay extra at the library to keep from going home." She shrugged and her blush deepened.

"If it's money you need, I could always lend you some," Gold offered casually, handing over an entire case of double-A batteries. Belle shook her head, took out two, and gave the rest back, but Gold wouldn't take them.

"I don't need so many," Belle said. "Here. Take them."

"I insist," Gold said, refusing to take the batteries back. Reluctantly, Belle slipped them in the deep pocket of her sweatpants, which she just then realized she was wearing. With an oversized, ratty old t-shirt. And no bra. Belle crossed her arms over her chest while Gold wasn't looking and blushed red as a beet.

"Now," Mr. Gold was saying, taking out his wallet, "How much do you need?"

Belle backed away like he'd insulted her. "No!" she exclaimed, then calmed her voice to a more reasonable register. "I'm not taking your money so don't even ask."

"It wouldn't be any trouble," Mr. Gold assured her with conviction. "You could just pay me back whenever it's convenient." But Belle continued to shake her head.

"That's not the issue," she said. "I just don't want your money. I don't want to owe you." She muttered under her breath, "I want you to respect me."

"I do respect you!" Mr. Gold exclaimed, perhaps a bit louder than was necessary, though Belle didn't notice. She was more than a little embarrassed that he had heard her remark when she hadn't intended him to. "More than you can imagine, Isabelle, I respect you, and I know what it's like to need a little financial help now and then. When I was in law school, I had so much debt; it's taken me years to pay it off. And you wouldn't believe the jobs I took to pay my way." He shook his head and chuckled reminiscently.

"Then you understand," Belle said, completely missing the way he'd used her first name, too caught up in the moment to realize that was something he'd never done, that she didn't even _know_ his first name. "You know what it's like to feel like you're not respected."

Mr. Gold gave pause and sighed, pocketing his wallet. "Yes, alright," he finally admitted. "I'm sorry if I acted a bit presumptuously there. It's just that I dread the thought that you may have to move out of your apartment. I'd hate it if you left."

Belle gaped, unable to believe her ears. Mr. Gold noticed her shock and seemed to retrace his steps, realizing what he'd said and opening his mouth to correct himself, but Belle beat him to the punch. "It's not Isabelle," she said first, calmly, and her hand, she realized, was hovering inches from his, ready to reach out and grab it. She withdrew it immediately and took a step back; she'd been inching nearer to Mr. Gold without knowing it and was dangerously close to attempting to live out some of her more inappropriate fantasies. "Most everyone just calls me Belle. And I'd like it if you did too." She gave a friendly smile, meanwhile her heart was racing. "And I'd hate it too, if I had to leave. We really haven't even properly gotten to know each other, you and I, and you seem like such an interesting man."

Gold shook his head. "Oh no, dearie," he said, and Belle swooned. "Dearie," he'd called her; that was even better than "Belle." A butterfly beat its wings against her ribcage; her heart stuttered on. "I'm afraid you'll find me entirely dull if you got to know me."

"Somehow I doubt that."

There was a stretch of silence wherein Belle was painfully aware of the distance between them and wanted nothing more than to close it and kiss him like she'd always dreamed of doing. In fact, in her dreams, that was exactly what she would do, but this was reality and there were certain rules that had to be followed. Besides, Belle didn't want to scare Gold off. This was the closest they'd ever gotten to a real conversation, to real… banter, almost.

Belle shook her head to clear out some of her more inappropriate thoughts and cleared her throat. "Um, since you're offering to help, though," she said awkwardly, crossing her arms over her chest again as she remembered herself, "There is one thing… If it wouldn't be too terrible of me to encroach on your generosity…"

"Anything," Mr. Gold said, and he sounded so sincere. Belle almost wished he didn't; "anything" was such a broad classification and her imagination was already running away with it, especially considering the nature of her impending request. She blushed, the brightest she'd blushed all evening, even though she'd never really stopped blushing because she just couldn't seem to stop embarrassing herself.

"Could I, uh…" She coughed, cleared her throat, averted her eyes. "Could I use your shower? Without electricity… I don't have hot water."

Belle could have been imagining it, but she swore she saw Mr. Gold go a little pink as well, but it was gone as quickly and inconclusively as it came. "Certainly," he said, coughing several times. "Yes, of course, go right ahead."

And Belle just stared at him, wide-eyed, because had his voice just cracked? She couldn't help it if her mouth hung open a little; what was going on? "Thank you," she finally said when she could string together syllables. She made her way toward the door. "I'll just, uh, go get my things and I'll be right back."

Clumsier than ever, Belle stumbled into the hall, fumbled with her key in the lock, and in her room gathered up a towel, pajamas, and her hair products. "Where's your bathroom?" she asked when she reentered Mr. Gold's apartment. He directed her to a room to the side and Belle thanked him again, closing and locking the door behind herself. She collapsed against the door, breathing heavily, flushed and unable to think straight.

Curse her overactive imagination, Belle thought as she stripped down to nothing in the object of her desire's apartment. She caught a whiff of the air and had to lean against the sink for support.

And curse his bathroom for smelling so strongly like him.


	2. 415

**2342 Storybrooke Street**

**2: 415**

_A/N: Oh my gosh, chapter 1 got such great responses, thank you all, you guys! I hope you continue to enjoy this brief little story; here's chapter 2 of 3. Read and review, please!_

XXX

Isabelle French was in his apartment.

Now that alone was hard to believe. Gold was having enough trouble convincing himself of that, that someone as beautiful and perfect as Belle would ever deign to enter his lonely den of pathetic solitude. But she did, quite frequently, and Mr. Gold had to remind himself on numerous occasions that it was nothing personal toward him, that they were just neighbors and it was normal neighborly stuff that went on between them, nothing more. It wasn't as though she liked him or anything. She just… was somewhat incredibly forgetful, in that she was constantly locking herself out of her apartment. And her unnamed friends had a tendency to get themselves into legal quandaries, and he was a lawyer, so of course Belle came to him with her questions. And whenever she baked, she always misread the serving size and made too many brownies and who was Mr. Gold to say no to chocolate?

It didn't _mean_ anything.

If Belle even felt anything beyond simple neighborliness, it was closer to friendship than it would ever, _ever_ be to attraction. Mr. Gold was, after all, a difficult man to love. His spectacularly failed marriage was a testament to that. And Gold was pretty sure Belle didn't have a man in her life; that is, he didn't know of one and had never seen one come by. Not that he'd been watching (he had). But even if she _wanted_ a man, she was beautiful enough to get herself one ten times more suited to her than Mr. Gold. Someone young and handsome without a truckload of emotional baggage in his past.

And maybe she decided to remain single. It still meant _nothing_. Belle was a strong, beautiful, independent woman who didn't need a man to complete her. No matter how Gold looked at it, Belle was entirely out of his league, by all standards. He was fortunate to merely look upon her, though the irritating voice in the back of his head that refused to shut up in times like these was saying how he wished he could look upon her _now_, locked up in his bathroom as she was, more likely than not in some state of undress.

Gold shook his head and diverted his train of thought down less dangerous tracks. Perhaps, he thought, he should offer to let Belle sleep on his couch. It couldn't be comfortable in a dark apartment with no air conditioning in the middle of August in a crowded, smog-filled city like Manhattan. Although if Gold couldn't sleep with Belle in the apartment next to his, he didn't know how on earth he expected to sleep with her in the next room.

And then Gold turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand, the matter of Belle being in his bathroom, because he felt that this was a matter that needed to be addressed, to at least be acknowledged.

Isabelle French was in his _bathroom_. Now _that_ was surreal. She'd asked to use his shower; he could hear her turning it on, the water streaming down into the tub and down the drain.

Now she was probably undressing, and Mr. Gold had to breathe deeply to keep this from affecting him. She undressed in her apartment next door loads of times, he assumed, with about as much distance between them as there was between them now, but this was different, because she was in _his_ apartment, in his _bathroom_. Don't think about it, he said to himself, but how could he not? Because with his eyes closed – and he didn't remember closing his eyes, but apparently he had – Gold could picture her clearly, as if she was standing before him, and that was a bad thing, that was a very, very bad thing, and he should be ashamed of himself, he knew.

It wasn't really his fault, he told himself. It was that Thursday four years ago, when they'd had coffee. That was the day he had become aware of her existence. And a Wednesday the next month, when she needed help setting up her television and Gold plugged in all the cords and wires while she stood behind him and chatted in that charming voice about he didn't even remember what. And the day in the rain, the Friday, when it had rained and he had lent her his umbrella.

It wasn't his fault. It was Belle's, for being so beautiful and irresistible. For moving in next-door to him and asking him to help her hang the curtains in her bedroom that one day so that he knew that her bed was just on the other side of the wall from his every time he tried to go to sleep and ended up lying awake knowing exactly where she was. So close, with just the wall between them, but it may as well have been miles; she'd never think about a man like him the way he thought about her.

And think about her he did. In the mornings he woke up from dreaming about her and could hear her getting ready for the day in her apartment; the walls in this building were really much too thin. She was always at the diner when he was, getting coffee; at precisely seven fifteen he would walk in and there she'd be, sipping from her cup or engaging the waitress Miss Lucas in friendly conversation. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly bold, Mr. Gold sat with her, and she talked about books and then apologized for talking too much about books and Gold waved away her apology and told her she could talk about whatever she liked. But mostly he sat alone. Mostly he sat at his own table, sneaking glances over his drink at the girl with her nose stuck in a book.

At work, even, whenever Gold's mind wandered, it would wander to her. Wondering what she was doing right that moment, at her job at the library. Even though it was probably nothing interesting, shelving books, chatting with her coworkers, giving information and recommendations to readers and shushing noisy children.

At eight o'clock he'd leave the office, always at eight, even if he finished his work early, because he knew that if he left at eight he'd be home just in time to run into Belle on her way back from dinner and they could ride the elevator up together. If Mr. Gold's life was a movie, one of these elevator rides would eventually end in snogging, but the real world didn't work that way and Gold was never much of a fan of romantic comedies anyway.

Instead, they might exchange a few words, but usually not, usually they didn't even make eye contact, and they got out and Gold would enter apartment 415 and Belle apartment 416 and Gold would collapse in his favorite armchair with a hot cup of tea and bemoan his sorry excuse of a life, all the while thinking about – you guessed it – Belle.

So really it was nothing out of the ordinary for Gold as he sat in that armchair while Belle showered, listening to the water and wondering why he couldn't just go back to caring about only three things in the world: his work, his son, and his solitude. Things had been much simpler then, when he hadn't had to worry about anyone but himself. It was easier to keep himself grounded in reality when his stomach wasn't doing triple backflips every time he laid eyes on his neighbor. Honestly, Gold thought he'd aged out of the stage of his life where he fantasized about and pined over women who were out of his reach. Wasn't he supposed to be too old for this?

Apparently not. Mr. Gold was so deep in fantasy, in fact, that he didn't notice when the water shut off, and he could hear but didn't register the sounds of Belle stepping out of the shower, drying off, and getting dressed. The bathroom door opened and Gold finally came to, cursing sharply under his breath and regaining his composure.

Belle came up to him, and Mr. Gold was acutely aware of her closeness. He stood and tried not to look too guilty. The innocent, unaware look on Belle's face certainly wasn't helping.

"Thank you so much," she said, referring to the shower. "I… really appreciate it." Belle scratched the back of her head, shifted uncomfortably, and bit her lip. Mr. Gold looked away, continued to look away and not say anything beyond a muttered "You're welcome" because he couldn't trust his voice, and if he seemed rude, then so be it, at least Belle would stay away and Mr. Gold would no longer be put through this torture of being so near her. He could look, but he couldn't touch, and there was something to be said about desiring that which you cannot have; it was starting to drive him mad with want.

Belle turned, but on her way out the door cast Mr. Gold one last lingering glance over her shoulder as she stood in the open doorway, and she looked as though she wanted to say something. Invite her to stay on your couch, Mr. Gold's brain prompted helpfully, but even though he opened his mouth to speak the sounds wouldn't come out and his lips refused to form the words.

After a moment Belle looked down at the floor, her face flushed from the heat of the shower, and stepped out into the hall, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The apartment was finally silent; Mr. Gold turned off the light in the kitchen by the door and was heading back to the living room to read a little before going to bed when he heard the door thrown open again; it slammed loudly against the doorstop. Mr. Gold turned around and there was Belle again, but he hardly had time to register her presence and his own confusion before she was standing before him, uncomfortably close, and she spoke. Her voice was hushed but urgent, desperate, even. Gold didn't know what to make of the determined gleam in her eyes, and just stood there and listened with an impassive poker face.

Belle opened her mouth and took a deep breath, then let out all her words in an incomprehensible rush:

"Do you know how sometimes you think when there's something you're wondering about and you're pretty sure it's not what you want it to be so you figure it's better not to know than to know there's no hope at all, but then eventually you're driven so mad by not knowing that you're willing to risk it being hopeless if it just means you'll _know_ and get this massive thing out of your way and have your answer? Because I'm feeling sort of like that right now and I just need to know if you've ever felt this way or if I'm just going crazy."

Belle stopped talking then, and it was clear she expected Mr. Gold to say something, but he honestly hadn't caught a word of what she'd said. He gaped. How was it women did this? They collected their thoughts in one big messy ball and let them stew for ages and then when they couldn't hold it in any longer they let it all out all at once and it never made a single scrap of sense.

Deciding just to be honest with her, because he couldn't think of anything else to say, Gold shrugged and said, "I don't think I understood a word of that."

"Sorry, I'm just a mess today." Belle sighed and ran a hand through her hair, even though this didn't clear anything up for Mr. Gold. "I guess I'm just apologizing in advance, even though I'm not really sorry, but I've just been wondering this for _four years_, and I'm _dying_ to find out just exactly how you'd respond if I did this…"

"Wait, sorry for wh—" Mr. Gold began, before he was cut off in the most amazing way possible. And he swore it wasn't a dream, but Belle grabbed him and kissed him, firmly and full on the mouth, and Gold didn't even think about what she'd said or where they were or what had just happened, just reacted.

His hands were on her face, keeping her mouth glued to his. Their bodies were flush together; Belle wrapped one arm around his head and the other around his shoulders and went weak at the knees, holding onto Mr. Gold like she needed him to live, her fingers buried in his hair and shirt. She made a desperate, needy sound in the back of her throat and tugged at him, pried his mouth open and deepened their kiss. Gold's thoughts raced a million miles a minute, mostly wondering if there was even the slightest possibility that this could be real.

At that point, what was left of the logical part of Gold's mind spoke up, voicing its concerns that he should stop this before it got too out of hand, but he shrugged it off because what was the harm; this was surely a dream, and on the one in a million chance that it wasn't, Gold was in no rush to end it before Belle came to her senses.

Even though he didn't fully or consciously realize it, a part of Mr. Gold was persistently reminding himself that there was something he'd forgotten, something he needed to remember today in particular, something that might have been important but no longer was compared to the importance of giving his full attention to kissing Belle. Whatever it was, though, it could wait.


	3. No Room at the Inn

**2342 Storybrooke Street**

**3: No Room at the Inn**

_A/N: The third and final (moderately T-rated) chapter. Mr. Gold feels like he's forgetting something. What could it be? One of you guessed it, the rest of you shall see! Read and review. Let me know if you catch any typos._

XXX

Arms laden with a suitcase and a duffel bag, Neal used his elbow to hit the elevator button for his father's floor. Exhausted from the plane ride, he slumped against the back wall of the elevator and let out a sigh.

Neal had just arrived in Manhattan and was visiting his father; his girlfriend and kid would be joining him the next day, but Neal liked to head out early and spend as much time as possible with his father. Neal and Mr. Gold didn't see nearly enough of each other since Neal had moved with his small, makeshift family to Tallahassee. Luckily Mr. Gold was more than willing to pay to fly Neal, Emma, and Henry up to visit them more frequently than they otherwise would have been able to afford; their visits were something special now that Henry was old enough to enjoy New York properly.

With his phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, Neal listened to Emma go over everything she'd packed so she could be sure she hadn't forgotten anything.

"Sounds like you have everything," Neal said when she finished, though he'd stopped listening halfway through his girlfriend's speech.

"Where are you?" Emma then asked. "Are you at your dad's building yet? Does he know you're there?"

"I just got here, yeah, I'm on the elevator on my way up to his floor," Neal said. "And no, I haven't called him yet, but he knows I'm coming. I have to hang up, though, I'm almost there."

"Okay," Emma said, "Love you."

"I love you too." Neal smiled blissfully and hung up. Yeah, he loved her. And this week he would show her just how much.

Neal felt the box-shaped bulge in his pocket and smiled. He couldn't wait to tell his dad how he was planning to propose to Emma this week. Hopefully Mr. Gold would have ideas or could help Neal decide the where and how of it; there were so many places Neal could think to do it. Nothing predictable like the Empire State Building or the Statue of Liberty, of course, but places he'd taken Emma when they were first dating. That one bench in Central Park, the place they used to always get coffee, the restaurant he took her on their abysmal first date that had somehow miraculously resulted in a second date.

And there were so many other details Neal needed to figure out before he got down on one knee, even beyond the location. Like, when should he do it? Near the beginning of the week, or closer to when they went home? How would his dad react to the news that they were getting married? Assuming Emma said yes, of course. Neal couldn't even let himself consider the possibility that she might say no; that was a bridge he would cross when and if he got to it.

But should Neal ask her in front of Henry, or take Emma out on a date, just the two of them? Mr. Gold never minded taking care of Henry so they could go out, so that was always an option. Should Neal take her somewhere nice? No, she wouldn't have packed any formal clothes, and Neal hadn't either. It would have to be a casual location, which, on the bright side, would then make it even more of a surprise when he asked.

Neal hadn't even begun to think about what he should say. A simple, "Would you marry me?" would surely be easiest. But should he add something more? Should he prepare a speech?

No, he decided then. Emma hated talking about feelings almost as much as she hated public displays of affection. She would prefer it if Neal kept the entire affair casual and low-key. He didn't want to put too much pressure on her, anyways. So yeah, he would be straightforward and simple. A good plan, considering Neal had _not_ inherited his father's way with words. Some of Neal's most embarrassing memories were of all the terrible ways he'd screwed up at public speaking. Messing up like that in front of Emma, and on something so important, was beyond humiliating even just to think about.

Neal shook his head to clear it. Putting thoughts of Emma out of his mind for the moment as the elevator dinged, Neal got out on the fourth floor, his father's floor. He struggled with both his bags – he should have just snuck some of his stuff that he wouldn't need on the first night into Henry's suitcase so he wouldn't have had to pack his extra things into a separate duffel bag – as he made his way down the hall, reading the numbers on the doors as he passed them. 412, 413, 414, and finally, 415.

Neal regarded the door for a moment, wondering how he should go about doing this with his hands full. He could just yell, but he didn't want to disturb anyone. He would hate to interrupt anyone's evening, or wake them. Neal knew a few of the other residents in the building, after all; he'd lived here himself, once (it was a very old building), and visited often.

There was Mary Margaret downstairs, and David down the hall from her. August used to room with David before David married Kathryn, and then had recently moved back in after the divorce. David and August were long-time friends of Neal's; he made a mental note to check up on them later.

And of course there was Belle, Neal's father's next-door neighbor. Belle had gotten into the habit of entertaining Neal when he was visiting without Emma and Henry while his father was at work. Mr. Gold usually couldn't take more than a few days off for Neal's visits, and never all in a row, so Neal spent most of his time on his own when he didn't have Emma and Henry. He would either visit with August or David, or else go to Belle's for lunch.

They had lunch together often, and it was nice. Belle talked about books and the people she met at her job at the local library and Neal talked about Emma and Henry and occasionally, when she was in a particularly good mood, Belle shared a funny or embarrassing story about her ex-fiancé, Gus, and the two of them had a good laugh. Neal wasn't the most observant guy in the world, but he knew enough to realize that Belle was one of the few people in the building who wasn't afraid of or repelled by Mr. Gold, and Neal was grateful for that. He considered Belle a friend.

So of course the last thing Neal wanted was to disturb Belle with shouting. Instead, he dropped his luggage on the floor with a heavy thud, offering a silent apology to the inhabitants of the apartments on the floor beneath him, and lifted his fist to knock on the door…

And heard something very odd. Something he'd _never_ heard in his father's apartment, and would never have expected to.

But… surely he was just imagining things? Neal shook his head and pressed his ear to the door, because there was no way in hell he could have heard what he thought he'd heard. Not _here_.

Except… there it was again: _moaning_. And not the worrisome kind. Sensual, passionate moaning, louder this time, and just in case that wasn't incriminating enough, Neal also heard a name: "Gold."

Now that just couldn't be right.

Disturbed and needing to clear this up before he assumed the worst, Neal tried the door, found it was unlocked – odd, knowing his father – and stepped boldly inside, only to stop dead in his tracks once he reached the sitting area. His eyes widened to the size of quarters, and his jaw was practically unhinged, hanging open as if to catch flies.

Neal's own father, Mr. Gold himself, was locked in a passionate embrace _with a woman_. Her head of unmistakable chocolate-colored curls was thrown back, her torso was completely bare – fortunately her back was to Neal – and her legs straddled Mr. Gold, whose shirt was entirely undone.

Neal rubbed his eyes and looked again, but no, that was definitely who he thought it was.

Belle. Belle French. _Isabelle French_ was _snogging_ Neal's _father_. She was sitting on Gold's lap on the very same couch that Neal had done his homework on in college, the couch he and his friends had sat on watching _Star Wars_.

Neal felt like he was going to be sick. He let out a choking sound from his throat that was drowned out by an altogether different and much less appropriate sound coming from his father – his _father_! – as the man's hands were somewhere Neal didn't want to look and his mouth thoroughly explored Belle's neck and shoulders.

Finally, Neal collected his thoughts enough to actually react. His first move was to look away and completely shield his eyes from what was going on. He then cleared his throat, to no effect. The couple was so caught up in each other and probably couldn't hear him anyway over Belle's nonsense mutterings of Mr. Gold's name, among various other things that primarily consisted of "yes" and "please."

So Neal cleared his throat again, louder, and when that didn't work he gritted his teeth and rolled his eyes and shouted, "DAD!"

It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Neal finally uncovered his eyes. Mr. Gold winced and looked over Belle's naked shoulder at his son, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. Belle turned beet-red, buried her face in Mr. Gold's shoulder, and covered her chest with the closest thing to her, in this case a pillow. Neal noticed – though he wished he hadn't – a hickey blooming where her neck met her shoulders.

Everything about Neal's face said that he was entirely unamused.

"I knew I was forgetting something," Mr. Gold muttered uselessly, grimacing apologetically. Belle bit her lip and twisted around to look up at Neal sheepishly. "Hi, son," Gold offered.

"'Hi'?" Neal shook his head in disbelief. "I walk in on my dad making love to his gorgeous young neighbor, I'm probably scarred for life, I can't unsee what I've just seen, and frankly you're both just lucky Henry isn't flying in until tomorrow, and all I get is '_hi_'?" He threw up his hands. "Dad! What the hell!"

"To be fair this is the first time this," Mr. Gold gestured between himself and Belle, "Has happened. I may have gotten carried away."

"You don't have to explain yourselves to me!" Neal said. "I'd just like it to go on record that not once in the entire time I lived here did _you_," he pointed to his father, "_Ever_ walk in on me doing it with a girl. I was _careful_, damnit! The least _you_ could have done is take it over to _her_ apartment!"

Even though Neal was, in general, not the least bit pleased by this turn of events, a small, microscopic part of him was glad his father had finally found someone who made him happy, if "happy" was even the right word to use in this instance. Just… did it have to happen when Neal was visiting? Of all the times, it had to be _this week_?

"It was my fault," Belle piped up, interrupting Neal's tirade. "I started it. Sorry. I didn't know you were visiting—"

"I completely forgot," Gold interjected. "I was distracted. Clearly."

"—If you want I can leave," Belle finished. Mr. Gold's eyes widened.

"No!" he exclaimed. Neal raised an eyebrow, and Mr. Gold, realizing how loud he'd said that, lowered his voice back to a normal register. "Neal can sleep in your apartment," he offered.

"I don't have electricity," Belle reminded Gold.

"That's fine," Neal said shortly. "I'll bunk with August and David until Emma and Henry get here and we can get our hotel room."

Belle looked extremely guilty and more than a little ashamed. Neal would let her know it was really not a big deal, but not just yet. At the moment, he was pretty pissed. "I'm really sorry—" Belle began, but Neal cut her off.

"No, I should've called when my plane landed," he said with a deep sigh, holding up a hand to stop her. "And actually, I am glad to see you. I have something I could use your advice on, Belle." The ring in Neal's pocket that had been sitting there so long was burning a hole to his skin. He remembered for the first time since he'd gotten out of the elevator what he'd planned on doing on this trip; for a moment he was able to forget the compromising position he'd found his father and Belle in when he'd arrived.

"Later," Mr. Gold said through gritted teeth, prompting Neal to _get out_. Neal got it; his father had probably had a thing for Belle for quite a while (Neal just couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it until now) and this was his chance to act on that, and Neal had gotten in the way.

After all, even though Mr. Gold was Neal's father, he was also a man. And just like Neal had moved away when he'd found the woman of his dreams, now his father was kicking him out when _he_ found the girl of _his_ dreams.

Neal just decided it wasn't worth fighting. He slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and grabbed the handle of his suitcase. "Fine, I'm leaving." But before he could get to the door, Mr. Gold stopped him.

"Oh, wait, Neal!" Neal turned around, exasperated, still trying to avoid looking at Belle.

"Yeah, Dad?" he asked.

"D'you have any condoms?" Mr. Gold unabashedly asked, like that was something totally normal for him to ask. Belle turned a brilliant shade of red and had to look away.

Neal glared. If looks could kill…

"Yeah, okay, fine." Neal rooted around in his bag, and wondered when the hell his life had become so backward.


End file.
